has fallen, the oak sobs and cries: 'Woe! Woe! Woe.'

"Do you see the oaks?" asked the Singing Mouse. "Do you see the
little lake? Do you know this place of the oaks? Behold it now!"
It waved a tiny hand.

I gazed at the naked, cheerless wall, seamed and rent with
cracks along its sallow width. And as I gazed the seams and
scars blended and composed into the lines of a map of a noble
country. And as I gazed more intently the map took on color, and
narrowed its semblance to that of a certain region. And as I
gazed yet more eagerly the map faded quite away, and there lay
in its stead the smiling face of an enchanted land.

There was the little silver lake, rippling on its shore of
rushes. Around rose the long curved hills, swelling back from
the shore. The baby river babbled on at the mouth of the lake,
kissing its mother a continual farewell. The small springs
tinkled metallically cold into the silver of the lake. The
tender green of the gentle glades rolled softly back, dividing
the two hills in peaceful separation. And there were the oaks.
At the water's edge, near the lesser spring, the wild apple
trees twisted, but upon the hills and over the great glades
stood the reserved, mysterious oaks, tall and strong.

[Illustration]

One oak, a mighty one, now resolved itself more prominently
forth. Did I not know it well? Could one forget the tortured but
noble soul of this oak? Could one forget the strong arm of
comfort it extended over this most precious spot of all the
glade? One must suffer before one may comfort. The oak had
suffered somewhere. We do not know all things. But over this
spot the great tree reached out sheltering hands, and certainly
from its hands dropped benedictions plenteously down.

Under the arm of the oak I saw a tiny house of white--neat,
well-ordered, full of cheerfulness. Through the wall of
canvas--for it now seemed to be after dusk--there shone a faint
pink gleam of light, the soul of the white house, its pure
spirit of content. As it shone, it scarce seemed lit by mortal
hand.

Near the small house of white, and under the oak's protecting
arm, there burned a little flame, of small compass save in the
vast shadows it set dancing among the trees. Those who built
this fire here, so many times, so many years, each time first
craved pardon of the green grass of that happy glade, for they
would not harm the grass. But the grass said yea to all they
asked, this was sure, for each year th